


Marvellous Middles

by the_random_writer



Series: Frenemies [2]
Category: Bourne (Movies), Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux, The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Beer, Doppelganger, Flirting, Gen, Guns, Snark, Threats, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A year on from their initial meeting, Liam needs Kirill's help on a job.A crossover fic that combines Cut & Run with mySeparated Twinsseries, featuring William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy'.  Related to myTriplesseries, but not part of it.Will only make sense if you have seen both movies, and know about a certain facecast for Ty Grady.





	Marvellous Middles

Once again, the Russian was late.

Not that this really came as much of a shock. In the nine years he'd now been in this role, not a _single_ one of his Russian colleagues had ever arrived at a meeting on time. Whether this was a national failing, or simply because all the Russians he knew were in an irregular line of work, Liam honestly couldn't say. He favoured the latter, but suspected the former.

"Don't get your knickers in such a twist," he muttered under his breath. "Not the man's fault you're such a neurotically punctual Brit."

At the edge of his vision, a shadow moved. 

Liam looked up, and lo and behold, there was his unpunctual Russian friend, wending his way through the tables and chairs. He made a point of checking his watch—a mere thirty-two minutes late.

Kirill said nothing as he arrived, but dipped his head in a silent 'hello'.

That was another lesson Liam had learned—his Russian colleague of almost a year wasn't exactly a talkative chap. Which was fine, since the one mission they'd tackled together—a small demolitions job in Ukraine—had shown him firsthand that an ounce of Kirill's deeds were worth a pound of most other men's words. The man was nothing if not bluntly efficient…

"You're half an hour late," Liam complained, making his irritation clear.

Kirill shrugged, then scanned the bar, silently checking the exits and guests. "I was doing something I could not interrupt."

As usual, he simply explained his tardy behaviour—an apology would never appear.

Liam's curiosity roused. "Were you out on a job?" he asked.

For that, he was willing to let the tardiness go—a courtesy from one busy professional to another.

Now, the Russian shook his head. "I was entertaining a lady friend." A corner of his mouth pulled up. "Somebody was doing a job, but not in a way that uses a gun."

Liam supposed he could forgive that as well. Whether from a man or a woman, decent head should never be rushed.

He watched as Kirill shucked off his coat and hung it around the back of his chair. He flicked his eyes up and down the Russian's tall, black-clad physique—it was leaner and lighter than he remembered. "You've lost weight," he approvingly said.

"Five kilos. I have taken up distance running again."

"Looks good on you," Liam added, trying not to notice how elegant Kirill's cheekbones now looked, especially with the freshly-shorn hair. If Orlov ever gave up his current career, he could probably make a half-decent living as an underwear model in Milan…

"You have shaved off your beard," Kirill said as he dropped into his chair.

Smiling, Liam reached up to rub his chin. "Liked it well enough for a while, but when it got to a certain length, it started to get on my tits."

"I think you look much better without it," Kirill declared. "Now I can see that you actually have a chin. For a British man, that is a very rare thing indeed."

Liam snorted. "This is good, solid, London stock you're looking at, mate," he said, slapping a hand on his chest. "No hoity-toity, chinless gimps anywhere in my family tree."

"Hoity-toity?" Kirill repeated, frowning slightly.

"Stuck-up," Liam explained. "Pretentious, self-important wankers with more money and social status than brains. You must have them here as well?"

Kirill sighed. "Sadly, yes."

A server appeared at Kirill's side—young, brunette and modestly pretty—ready (if not entirely willing) to take his order for food and drink. 

The Russian switched to his native tongue to order a beer, some water and a serving of _grenki_ with mayonnaise.

"No Guinness tonight?" Liam asked, surprised by Kirill's request for a Sibirskaya Korona.

"Tonight, Guinness would be too much. I need something lighter and more thirst-quenching instead."

Liam grinned as he swirled his own drink. "Something to replace all those fluids you lost while you were entertaining your lady friend?"

"I would not put it so crudely, but yes. The entertainment was far more strenuous than I thought it would be."

"How's work?" Liam enquired.

"Fine," was all Kirill said.

The Englishman huffed and rolled his eyes. He didn't mind that Kirill wasn't a talkative man, since he himself could easily speak for a couple of people, but even his conversation skills could only cover so much. "No interesting office gossip to share?" he mockingly asked, suspecting that even if there was, Kirill wasn't the type of man who would pay the slightest bit of attention to it.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't been to the FSB office for almost four months."

Now, _that_ was very interesting news. "Did they finally decide they've had enough of your bra-burning views, and throw your sorry arse out the door?"

Kirill shook his head. "They have not fired me," he revealed. "They have simply put me on babysitting duties."

"Really? Who've they got you watching?" Liam asked, wondering if that kind of work was viewed as a punishment or a reward. No matter the answer, it was a _terrible_ waste of the other man's skills.

"Yuri Gretkov," was Kirill's reply.

That was a name Liam had heard. "The Pekos guy?"

"The CEO, yes."

"Why the fuck are you sitting on him?"

Kirill leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. In a slightly quieter voice, he said, "The FSB doesn't believe Gretkov's explanation for how and where he raised the money to buy his initial stake in the firm. They think it came from an illegal source."

"Terrorists?"

"Americans."

Liam grimaced. "That's even worse."

"Which is why they have assigned me to watch him. Officially, to protect the head of an important private corporation from people who might want to do him harm."

"But you're spying on him at the same time, reporting what you see and hear back to the higher-ups at the FSB," Liam concluded.

"I am, yes." The Russian's mouth curled up again. "Or, at least, I would be, if I actually gave a flying fuck what Yuri Gretkov was doing, which I absolutely do not."

"You're not giving the FSB _anything_?" Liam exclaimed. He didn't know Moscow as well as Kirill, but he knew the city well enough to understand that any kind of defiance was an _extremely_ dangerous move.

"I am not that stupid," Kirill complained. "I'm giving them enough to keep Bortnikov and his cronies happy, but I am not killing myself to uncover evidence of financial crimes."

"Have you _seen_ any evidence of financial crimes?"

"A little bit, yes. But nothing worse than what goes on every day inside the Kremlin Senate itself."

"You think Gretkov knows you've been put there to watch him?"

"The man is worth eight billion dollars. Of _course_ he does."

"How's he dealing with it so far?"

"Let us just say the two of us have figured our relationship out. I don't bother him too much, he doesn't bother me too much. I do his dirty work for him, and he expects me to be at his beck and call, but he pays very well on top of what I receive from the FSB, and does not use a lot of my time."

"That sounds like a decent arrangement."

"It is," Kirill said. "Especially as it means I don't have to spend my time at the Lubyanka, pretending to like the assholes I work with."

"Never been much of an office worker, myself. Always been far more of a freelance man."

They paused as the server returned with Kirill's glasses of beer and water. "The food will be out shortly," she said, then sauntered away.

Kirill raised his beer in a toast, Liam met the glass with his own.

As Kirill drank, Liam asked, "So, work's all fine, then. What about your personal life? Anything interesting happening there?"

The Russian frowned. "Why on earth would you want to know that?"

"Just being friendly."

"Don't. We are business partners, not friends."

Liam groaned and rubbed his face with his hands. "Fuck me, are you Russian arseholes _all_ like this, or do I just have terrible taste in friends?"

" _You_ try growing up in a totalitarian state responsible for the Great Purge and the Holodomor, maybe then you will understand why we are not always as friendly as you would like."

"You told me you were born in Berlin."

"I was. I moved to Moscow when I was ten."

Liam nodded. "When your parents divorced, right." One of the very few personal stories the other man had so far been willing to share. Which made him remember something else. "What about the William situation, then? Any change there since we last spoke?"

This time, Kirill didn't even speak—he simply scowled and shook his head.

"What about you?" the Russian asked, turning the awkward questions around. "Is there anything interesting happening in _your_ personal life?" He smiled, but not in a humorous way. "Has there been any change in the Tyler situation?"

Liam blew out a heavy sigh. "Sadly, no, on both counts."

"Which reminds me, we didn't talk much the last time we met, so I never had the chance to ask, did Tyler catch the serial killer?"

"The silly tart almost got himself and his partner killed in the process, but yes, he did."

He didn't mention that the partner was in both the work and personal sense…

"Good for him," Kirill proclaimed. "He is obviously a capable man."

Now it was Liam's turn to scowl.

"Don't be such a little child," Kirill said, using his most scolding tone. "You should be happy for Tyler's success. It is not his fault he no longer wants you in his life."

The words came out before his brain could slam down the gate. "I could say the same thing about you and your mother," Liam spat.

Kirill's smile was as cold and dark as a Murmansk winter night.

Liam mentally kicked himself in the arse. He was _fairly_ sure he could take the other man in a fight, but unless he wanted to find out firsthand, he should probably choose his next words with care.

The tension dispersed as the server returned with Kirill's order of _grenki_ , all but dropping the plate of deep-fried bread on the table.

As she moved off, Kirill's hand shot out to grab her firmly around the wrist. "Treat my food so poorly again, and I will break every bone in your hand. Do you understand?"

Her eyes went wide, she nodded and fled.

"Now, _that's_ an excellent chat-up technique if ever I've seen one," Liam declared, trying not to laugh. "How the _hell_ do you ever persuade women to fuck you when you treat them like that?" Although, to be fair, the server had gotten what she deserved.

"I don't talk to all women like that, only the ones who piss me off. Believe it or not, but when I want to, I can actually be quite charming." As he spoke, the Russian flashed him a dazzling, dimple-laden smile.

The muscles in Liam's abdomen tensed. Yes, he could absolutely believe it. Such a _terrible_ shame he would almost certainly never find out.

"But it is a very tiring business," Kirill went on. "Being charming, that is. The things women expect you to say and do before they will let you take them to bed." He wrinkled his nose. "I remember this one girl I met a few months ago, twenty, a redhead, the perkiest tits you have ever seen. She spent _three hours_ telling me all about her parents and brother, and how she wanted to be a teacher when she had finished school. Was the most painful evening of my life. And in the end, she wasn't even that good of a lay." He held up his hand with his thumb and index finger a half-inch apart. "I came _this_ close to putting a bullet behind her left ear, just to spare the next man the pain."

Liam chuckled. "Why prostitutes were invented, mate. It's like that American actor bloke said, you don't pay people for sex—"

"You pay them to be quiet and leave," Kirill finished. 

The Russian sighed, then scrunched his face. "Can I ask a slightly personal question?" he said.

Liam's hand froze above the plate of _grenki_. He grabbed a stick, dipped it into the mayonnaise, bit off a chunk and nodded his head. "Course you can."

"Is it any different with guys?" Kirill asked, sounding equal parts curious and scared, as if he wanted to know, but didn't. "Do men expect you to wine them and dine them, and listen to their _entire_ life story before they let you fuck them as well?"

Liam tilted his hand back and forth. "Depends on the guy. Some do, some don't. Tyler didn't make me wait long, but we didn't exactly meet under normal circumstances, so that's hardly surprising."

"I suppose it is hard to tell someone your whole life story and ask them to woo you with gentle words when you are covered in shit and hiding out in a trench."

"Or in a sniper's nest, but I get your point."

"Was that your specialty?" Kirill asked. "Sniper work?"

"One of them, yes. Although, if I'm being honest, I was actually more of a designated marksman than a sniper."

Kirill nodded. "As was I."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What was your primary weapon?"

"Dragunov SVDN."

Liam made an admiring sound. "Very nice. I was trained on a HK417 myself. Tried a few others since then, of course."

"Any favourites?"

"Always had a soft spot for the M76." A choice he knew the Russian would hate.

Kirill wrinkled his nose again. "That's just a poor man's Dragunov."

"Always thought of it as more of a lengthened AK-47 than a full-on, Dragunov clone. Better recoil, and doesn't have that shitty combination stock."

"Good luck finding one where the follower doesn't jam."

Liam snorted. "There is that, yes. Happened to me while I was on a job in Belgrade. Almost got my head taken off by some arsehole from the Zemun Clan."

"Most of the _duraks_ in the Zemun Clan barely know one end of a gun from the other."

"I know," Liam said. "The only reason I'm even here to tell you the tale."

Kirill smirked as he sipped on his beer. When he set his glass down, he asked, "Speaking of jobs, what was it you wanted to talk about? Your text message said it was extremely important."

Ten minutes in, and the pleasantries had come to a close—time to get down to business instead.

Liam finished his Guinness and pushed his empty glass to the side. "There's a guy over in Khamovniki I need to take care of."

"Russian?" Kirill asked.

"Austrian," Liam replied. "Businessman, legal resident, moved here eight months ago to open a Moscow branch for his firm."

"What kind of firm?"

"Does that matter?"

Kirill picked up a cheese-covered stick. "I suppose not, no. Any connections to the _siloviki_?"

A sensible question—if the man had Russian friends in high places, the police would do a more thorough job. "Not that I've so far been able to find."

"How are you planning to handle him?"

"At at least eight hundred metres per second, from at least six hundred metres away."

Kirill sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Which means you need a half-decent rifle."

"Which means I need a half-decent rifle, yes."

"You want me to provide you with one."

"Mine was supposed to be coming in from Sweden by boat, hidden in a shipment of paper, then my contact guy in Stockholm got himself stabbed walking home from the pub."

"Dead?"

Liam nodded. "Funeral's in Malmo tomorrow. Christ only knows where the hell my rifle is now." He stole another of Kirill's snacks, which earned him a withering glare.

Very deliberately, Kirill pulled the plate of _grenki_ out of his reach. "So you came to Moscow to do the job, hoping I could provide the missing piece."

"Can you?"

"Of course I can," the Russian said, sounding slightly annoyed. "You should really have planned to come to me from the start. I know it is nice to use your own weapon, but the logistics of smuggling a rifle across a border are _always_ a pain in the ass. Six hundred metres is not so demanding that a locally purchased replacement cannot easily do the job."

"I don't suppose you still have your Dragunov?" Liam asked, knowing he was going out on a limb. In their line of work, asking to use another man's gun was like asking him to watch while you roughly fucked his wife.

"As it happens, yes, I do," Kirill said. He immediately held up a protesting hand. "But I am not lending it to you."

"I promise I'll bring it back in one piece."

"It is not just about never lending another man your gun," Kirill explained. "The Dragunov has been slightly altered to suit my frame and shooting style. You could use it if I explained the modifications, and you had time to practise with it, but I won't and you don't, so you would be better off purchasing an unaltered stock model instead."

"Can you get your hands on another one for me?"

"I can find a Dragunov for you, if you give me a couple of days."

"My employer wants the work done tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Kirill echoed. "That is not a lot of time."

"Which is why I said the problem was urgent."

Kirill took a sip of his beer. "The only thing I can find by tomorrow is a PSL."

A Romanian weapon, but just as reliable as its Russian brother. "A PSL's good for up to a click, so yeah, that would work."

"But it might be the sporting version. I will have to check."

"Don't need a bayonet, mate. Or a military receiver. As long as it can pop out a couple of rounds, that's all I need."

Kirill leaned back to extract his phone from his trouser pocket. "Let me ask Cosmin how much it will cost."

"Cosmin?"

"Another colleague of mine. He is the Moscow man for a Moldovan gun-running gang, so he always has PSLs to sell." He flashed another groin-stirring grin. "You should see their holding site in Tiraspol. I went there once, I was so excited by the sheer number of guns, I swear I almost shit myself."

"What are his prices like?"

"For me, pretty good. He is here illegally, so he knows better than to rip me off."

"What commission will you be adding on top?" Liam asked.

The Russian waved the question away. "This one is on me." He bit off a chunk of another _grenki_. "But I will let you pay for the food and the drinks."

"I paid last time."

Kirill shrugged. "And if you need a favour at the very last minute, you will probably be paying next time as well."

"You're such an _arsehole_."

"Not my fault you turned up for a job unprepared."

"I'm beginning to think your brother inherited all the good Orlov genes, left you with the scum and the dregs."

Kirill smiled, flicking the insult away. "I have often wondered the same thing myself. Between the two of us, which one is evil, which one is good?"

"You're certainly not the Good Twin, I can tell you that."

"It is all relative," Kirill pointed out. "Perhaps I am the Evil Twin, and William is simply the Eviler Twin. Perhaps instead of being a wonderful man, he is even more of an asshole than me."

"Not sure it's possible to be even more of an asshole than you."

"Really? Have you never looked in a mirror?"

"Funny."

"It takes one to know one, my friend. You of all people should know that by now."

Liam turned the teasing tables again. "Except you're not really interested in knowing me, are you?"

"If by knowing, you mean fucking, then no, I am not."

"You should at least try it with another bloke once. You never know. You might actually enjoy it."

Kirill munched on another stick, washing it down with a mouthful of beer. "A woman I knew once said the same thing about sailing."

"How'd that work out?"

"She had to pump me full of Dramina and strap me into one of the bunks."

"Not much of a seadog, then?"

"Let us just say these legs were only made for land."

"So, I shouldn't try to persuade you to sleep with me by taking you on a romantic cruise?"

Kirill gave him a woeful look. "Will you please stop?"

"Can't blame a bloke for trying."

"I wouldn't mind so much if I thought it was actually me you were after, but you know as well as I do that you only want to fuck me because of who I resemble."

Liam opened his mouth to protest, then realized he was wasting his time. He flashed a slightly sheepish smile. "I'll admit your resemblance to Ty is appealing, but even without that, you're still a very fuckable man."

Kirill wasn't impressed. "I am not a substitute, Bell. For anyone or anything. Please remember that at our future meetings."

Someone stopped at their table again. This time, the guest was a muscular, balding, middle-aged man.

"Which one of you threatened to break all of the bones in Nadia's hand?" he asked. As he spoke, his own right hand formed into a fist.

"I did," Kirill politely replied.

The man leaned in, trying to use his impressive bulk to threaten the slimmer, seated man. "I do not like it when people threaten my girls."

Kirill waved the man away. "If Nadia does not want to be threatened, she should learn how to be a decent waitress. The face she had on her when she delivered my food could have made a carton of butter go bad."

"Someone needs to teach you some manners," the man warned in a cold but courteous tone.

Liam snorted. Now, wasn't that the goddamn truth?

Across the table, Kirill smiled. "You are the owner of the bar?"

The visitor nodded. "I am Vasili, yes."

Kirill's hand delved into his trouser pocket. "Tell me, Vasili, have you paid all of your federal taxes?" He pulled out his FSB badge and laid it open on the desk. "Or should I call my friend in the Internal Revenue Service and ask him to look at your file?"

Vasili's face turned to stone. "That won't be necessary," he said, pulling back from his threatening pose. "I apologize for the shoddy service, and I will speak to Nadia myself."

"Yes, I believe you will."

Vasili nodded, then disappeared as silently as he'd arrived.

Liam angled his head to read Kirill's badge. "Don't suppose there's any chance you could get me one of these?" he asked, tapping on the photo ID.

Kirill pulled the badge away, folded it up and shoved it back in his trouser pocket. "Absolutely no chance at all. The process is so strictly controlled, you might as well be asking me to get you elected as Pope."

"Shame. Can think of a few situations where having that would be very handy."

The phone on the table buzzed.

Kirill scooped it up to check the message. "Cosmin will sell you a PSL. It has been used, but it comes with all the original parts, so it is not the modified sporting version. The price includes the scope, cleaning kit, broken-shell extractor, small spare parts, oil bottle, leather sling, owner's manual, a foam-lined case and two boxes of seven sixty-two caliber rounds." He looked up and smiled. "All yours for two thousand dollars."

Liam grimaced. "That's a bit on the pricey side. Was hoping for closer to sixteen hundred, myself."

"That is his price. Take it or leave it."

As Kirill picked up another snack, Liam leaned back in his chair, calmly thinking his options through. Two grand was more than he really wanted to pay, but this late in the game, with no other decent contacts in town, he didn't see he had much of a choice. "Tell him I'll give him nineteen hundred in brand new, unmarked, c-note bills."

Kirill nodded and typed a quick message back.

Cosmin's reply wasn't long in coming. "You have a deal," Kirill confirmed. "He says to meet him at his warehouse at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. He will have everything ready for you."

Relief flooded through Liam's body. Thank fuck. Without a weapon, he would have had to call the whole thing off, and the man who was paying for it didn't like it when people let him down. He reached out to steal the last of the _grenki_ , provoking another hateful glare. "So, where do we go from here?" he asked. "Do you give me directions to Cosmin's warehouse and leave me to it, or do we have to go there together?"

"We go there together," Kirill said. "Cosmin doesn't know you, so if you turn up to meet him on your own, he is more likely to turn the gun on you than sell it to you."

"You okay with that? There's nothing Gretkov needs you to do tomorrow instead?"

"Not tomorrow, no. I am going to Berlin with him next week."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business for him, pleasure for me."

Liam grinned. "The kind where people end up laid?"

"The kind where people end up dead."

"Sounds interesting."

"It is. But I cannot tell you anything more, so for our both our sakes, please don't ask."

"You ever been back to your childhood home?"

"What?"

"You were born and partially raised in Berlin," Liam reminded his friend. "Have you ever gone back to see where you and your family lived?"

"Never."

"You should take the time to check it out. See if anyone remembers your folks, knows where your mum and William went."

"It has been twenty-seven years since I left. I doubt the building is even there. It has probably been torn down and turned into a park."

"No harm in looking."

"I suppose not, no."

"So, what's our plan now?" Liam asked. "Would you rather we go our separate ways and meet up again tomorrow morning, or would you like some company for the rest of the night?"

Kirill smiled, glad to switch to another topic. "Have you ever been to a club called The Gate?"

"Can't say I have."

"It is one of my new favourite places. The music is loud, the drinks are cold and the woman have a very comforting touch." The Russian shrugged. "Not that you would care about that."

Liam looked at his watch again—it was coming up on seven o'clock, which seemed too early to go to a club. "Would it even be open yet?"

"It caters to a rather eclectic crowd, so it stays open twenty-four hours. I have gone there to drink at ten o'clock in the morning just as often as ten o'clock at night."

"Sounds exactly like my kind of joint."

Kirill held up a warning finger. "But it is not an open-minded place, so you must promise not to ogle the men. I don't expect you to be all over the women, but you need to keep your preferences to yourself."

"No worries there, love. Wouldn't be the first time I've had to pretend to like something I don't. I can take care of myself and my predilections."

"Good, but just so you know, if you mess up and somebody catches you doing it, I will not come to your aid. You understand?"

Liam nodded. He understood. It sounded cruel, but in a reverse of the situation, he would do exactly the same thing himself. Kirill was right—the two of them were colleagues, not friends. The other man was useful to know, but he sure as hell wasn't worth dying for if and when the shit met the fan.

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, rifled through the various notes and pulled out enough crumpled roubles to cover the cost of the drinks and the food. "That should do it," he said. "How far is it to this other place?"

"A couple of clicks."

"So, one final question, then."

"What is that?"

"Shall we walk, or should we call for a cab?"


End file.
